


So, This Andruil Story...

by ponchard



Series: More Dalish Tales [3]
Category: Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: The Last Court
Genre: Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Andrastianism, Andrastianism-Influenced Dalish Lore, Andrastians, Canon-Typical Violence, Dalish Elves, Dalish Lore, Dalish Mistellings, Demons, Elvhen Pantheon, Fast Takeoff, Forgotten Ones, Gen, Gift of the Magi, Hunters & Hunting, More Dalish Tales, One Shot, Orlais, Other, Serault, Spells & Enchantments, Spirits, The Blight (Dragon Age), The Chantry, The Void, Undercroft, Unfriendly AI, and plague ate her lands, as always Auntie Lavellan's tales are brimming with terribly questionable life lessons, crafting, creators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7999879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponchard/pseuds/ponchard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot. After a sermon lets out, Auntie Lavellan tells the story of Andruil's Creation. </p><p>It's like a Dalish version of Gift of the Magi. Except that everyone involved hates each other. Also there's no backdrop of holiday spirit. Or really any altruism, at all.</p><p>All I'm saying is, Gift of the Magi would be more interesting if the moral was "we're all going to die, so lose yourself to your basest instincts."</p>
            </blockquote>





	So, This Andruil Story...

"Can you tell it?" said the jeweller, taking a torch from its sconce, "Maker knows we'll be on these stairs long enough."

Auntie Lavellan kicked the doorstop in place. The door thunked almost-closed, a thread of light bolting across the old women's faces. "You know, Giselle swears Dagna must be digging to the Deep Roads," the human added, as an aside. "Have you checked for golems lately?"

"You'll be the first to know if we find them, Sabine." Auntie chuckled. Making jewellry for Orlesian high society, Sabine often found herself tasked with odd projects. These projects usually came with gossip about who was looking for poisoned earrings, or angling for marriage. Naturally, if she needed special enchantments for these projects, the Inquisition was more than happy to share their research. As a personal favor. 

The two of them linked arms and started down the stairs. 

"Andruil's Creation, was it? Ah, let me remember where this begins..."

In the days long distant, when water pooled like walls, Andruil's warriors were known from one horizon to the next. She had gifted them with Obedience, a gift from her own voice, and it made them powerful. So disciplined were they, that one hunter could hold the bow, another ready the arrow, and a third could loose it, just as swiftly as a single archer. There has never been their like, before or since - save the huntress herself.

But with skill, comes jealousy. And with jealousy, the Forgotten are never far behind. The wicked gods saw Andruil's hunters, and they despised them. They wished for nothing more than to destroy, always destroy.

Jealous they were, but not reckless. They saw they could not match the warriors' battle-feats, so instead they hatched a plan. Their plan was made and it was so. They stole Andruil's very gift, Obedience. At once, her ranks were thrown into chaos. Hunters turned tail, sister turned on sister, and even Elgar'nan's beam could not check them. 

Soon enough, Andruil discovered the theft, and knew that she had to get Obedience back. Not only were her troops in disarray, but she feared what the Forgotten could accomplish if they could learn how to use it. So she flew into their midst herself, eyes blazing. 

The Forgotten were unconcerned.

"Where was _our_ gift?" they said, bandying their stolen prize between each other. "Is it fair that they should have one and not we? With one breath you can make a replacement. Must you deny us out of spite, halla-rider?"

Outwardly, the huntress hardened, but within herself she laid a trap. "This gift is a special token to my hunters, not to be taken."

"And yet we have taken it."

"You will not be so happy to have it when I return with spears."

"We await your fearsome army, o hunter of nothing."

"You mock me," she said, smoothing the leaves over the pit, "but let it not be said that I am not generous." 

With a thought, the air became flesh, half-formed. "Return what is mine, and give me a word. Anything in the rivers, in the sun or land, a thing not made, a thing that would not have been. A mighty weapon, a pestilence, even any vile thing. Name it, and today you will have it. Yes, for as long as I have hunters, you will possess it."

The Forgotten circled around each other, and they conferred. Now, the evil gods knew nothing of creation, only destruction. They could no more imagine a great weapon, or a terrible plague, than you or I could imagine the songs of the ancients, or the beauty of their crafts. But they knew enough to understand the enormity of what they'd been offered. And they were consumed with greed. As they argued between each other, trying to find a solution, their voices were so loud the rocks chattered around them.

In all this, their stolen prisoner went unnoticed. Stepping soft hunter-steps, Andruil took it by the arm, leaving right under their noses! When they looked up at last, their "gift" stood alone, still unfinished, and neither huntress nor hunted was anywhere to be found.

Yet Andruil had her own surprise waiting for her. When she returned to her people, victorious, she did not realize that she had an imposter. The Forgotten dealt in power, not promises. So they had quickly grown bored of Obedience, and they had killed it. What they had in hand was a much older gift, long forgotten even before they stole it. Unlike Obedience, they saw the potential for suffering within it. They chained it and locked it, but kept it living. When Andruil came, it was Empathy that they held before her, and Empathy took the place of Obedience.

At first, it did well enough. It sang to the warriors, just as Obedience had, songs of togetherness and cooperation. The hunters resumed their battle-feats, leaning one on another. But there were holes. Once, Andruil's chosen had fought as a single unit, but now they clumped and clustered in small groups. They mourned their dead, fighting badly if someone close to them was threatened.

The final proof came when the Forgotten attacked. The adversaries fought relentlessly in the morning, but in the afternoon their tactics changed. Abandoning range, the Forgotten stepped forward. They threw off their armor and their masks and put on faces, faces like any other. They fought hand to hand, desperately, as if something behind them compelled them to terror. Andruil's warriors fought bravely, but at night they tossed in torment. "You have ended lives," Empathy whispered, "lives that were just like yours." When the sun rose, her warriors sat. Nothing more. Disarmed, unarmored; no force, promise, or threat would budge them.

Then, Andruil knew. She returned to the camps of the Forgotten, well and truly furious. This was no act, only searing hatred. She stalked past the trenches and the spits and finally to the caves, their lairs, deep into the lands where they prowled. On calmer days, she might have marked the lack of resistance, the silence and the seals. As it was, she slammed through doors and burst through seals, venturing ever further, tearing through every corner for signs of Obedience or a target for her rage.

At last she came to a giant stone door, covering one of the furthest lairs. It was bound with heavy bindings, enough that she had to work to unmake them. As she worked, she began to perceive. The chains were odd; made of powerful magics, but made quickly. Haphazard. Thick and costly, but with jagged pieces slipping one against the other. Still, their sheer size was enough to give her pause. When she finally rolled the door away, she had enough presence of mind to wedge it open, wary of traps. Immediately the chains struggled to rejoin, but the huntress was strong, and had used a very large rock. Satisfied that she would not be shut in, she began to descend into the cave.

Down and down and down and down and down she went, on stairs almost as long and almost as dark as these are. Weeks later, she arrived at the bottom chamber, chipped and chiseled. Before her stood flesh, half-formed. Her creation.

"I would like a gift too," it said, from the darkness.

"A gift?" said the huntress. "My little creation, you haven't even got a name."

"Oh, but I have one," said the gift, "my name is Creation. Do you like it?"

"Silly creation, that is not your name. You are not finished."

"Am I not?" it sang, sing-song. "You thought me into being, and there was no word. So you thought of nothing, only making. I am Creation."

"Very well, Creation. What is it that you do?"

"What do you think?" it answered.

The huntress gave no response. In fact, she turned around at once and bounded up the stairs, scrabbling from step to step like a beast. Frantically she clawed her way up, thinking of anything but the _thought_. The single burning thought that screamed to break free. Her hands and feet pounded one after the other, escaping, fleeing, surfacing only to throw the door shut and make the seals tighter, broader, but still jagged, no time but to run and run and run. _As long as I have hunters, you will possess it._ It was there, would be there forever. She tore at herself as she ran, wild-eyed. _As long as I have hunters._

When she returned to her people, she snapped their necks. 

The thought was still there, buzzing, ready to make itself, to spill out of her mouth and make itself flesh. She chased down the remaining hunters, certain she must have missed one. Andruil hunted ceaselessly, never resting, never thinking. She did not dare to create again. Nor even to speak. So she hunted, through nights and days and the blurry times in between. With no other outlet, her skills sharpened to a deadly edge. Though she could not stop to enjoy her kills, her prowess was unmatched, surpassing even her former warriors' feats.

But. Now that the gods are locked away, Andruil cannot hunt as she did. So we must do it for her. And we must think no thoughts when we do. For if she imagines it, if we speak the word, it would be the end of all things.

"This probably sounds crazy," said Dagna, "but I kinda know what you're talking about? I've felt that not-thinking and the stuff behind it and it's all ready to come out but you can't _think_ because then-" 

The arcanist looked from the Inquisitor to the jeweller. 

"Yep, that sounded crazy. Ha, anyway, what did you need, Lady-"

" _Sabine_ is still fine, child," then, softer, "and it's not crazy."

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing Andrastian-influenced Dalish tales, because legends have a tendency to smudge together over time. Especially for more human-facing clans like (some versions of) Lavellan.
> 
> Here, the clan adopted an Andrastian belief - "spirits can't be creative" - but explained it in a different way. This story also borrows from real-world fears around AI doomsday scenarios. I code for a living, so I don't necessarily share the wilder fears, but I enjoy unfriendly-AI stories anyway.
> 
> Besides, Thedosian spirits/demons make great metaphors for AI. Like AI, the majority of them are very literal and hyper-focused on one area of specialization. The ones that can model very complex emotions are considered more powerful and intelligent. And there are flavors of "be careful what you wish for" which has a long tradition in things like genies and fey, but which also gets into modern discussions about designing AI. Even the discussion about whether spirits are _really people_ mirrors the discussion around whether a sufficiently advanced AI could be considered a person.


End file.
